The Racketeer

live?”
    “It’s a big country, Mal,” Hitchcock replies. “We’ve relocated witnesses a hundred miles from their homes and two thousand miles away. Distance is not that crucial, but, generally speaking, the farther the better. You like warm weather or snow? Mountains and lakes or sun and beaches? Big cities or small cities? Small towns are problematic, and we recommend a place with a population of at least 100,000.”
    “It’s easier to blend in,” Surhoff adds.
    “And I get to choose?” I ask.
    “Within reason, yes,” Hitchcock says.
    “Let me think about it.”
    Which I do for the next ten miles or so, and not for the first time. I have a pretty good idea of where I’m going, and for what reasons. I glance over my shoulder and see a familiar vehicle. “I’m assuming that’s the FBI right behind us.”
    “Yes, Agent Hanski and another guy,” Surhoff says.
    “How long will they follow us?”
    “They’ll be gone in a few days, I suppose,” Surhoff says as he and Hitchcock exchange looks. They don’t really know, and I’m not going to press them.
    I ask, “Does the FBI routinely keep up with witnesses like me?”
    Hitchcock replies, “It depends. Usually, when a witness enters witness protection, he has some unfinished business with the person or persons he snitched on. So the witness may have to go backto court to testify. In that case, the FBI wants to keep up with the witness, but they do it through us. Always through us. Over time, though, as the years go by, the FBI sort of forgets about the witnesses.”
    Pat changes the subject. “One of the first things you have to do is change your name, legally of course. We use a judge in Fairfax County, Northern Virginia, who keeps the files locked. It’s pretty routine, but you need to select a new name. It’s best if you keep the same initials, and keep it simple.”
    “For example?”
    “Mike Barnes. Matt Booth. Mark Bridges. Mitch Baldwin.”
    “Sounds like a bunch of white fraternity brothers.”
    “Yes, it does. But so does Malcolm Bannister.”
    “Thanks.”
    We ponder my new name for a few miles. Surhoff opens a laptop and pecks away. He says, “In this country, what’s the most common surname beginning with the letter
B
?”
    “Baker,” Hitchcock guesses.
    “That’s number two.”
    “Bailey,” I guess.
    “That’s number three. Bell is number four. Brooks number five. The winner is Brown, with twice as many customers as Baker in second place.”
    “One of my favorite African-American writers is James Baldwin,” I say. “I’ll take it.”
    “Okay,” Surhoff says, tapping keys. “First name?”
    “How about Max?”
    Hitchcock nods his approval as Surhoff enters the name Max. “I like it,” Hitchcock says, as if sniffing a fine wine. Surhoff looks up and says, “There are about twenty-five Max Baldwins in the United States, so it works fine. A good solid name, not too common, not too exotic or weird. I like it. Let’s dress it up a bit. Middle name? What works here, Max?”
    Nothing works in the middle with Max in front. Then Ithink of Mr. Reed and Mr. Copeland, my two former partners, and their tiny shop on Braddock Street in Winchester. Copeland & Reed, Attorneys and Counselors at Law. In their honor, I select Reed.
    “Max Reed Baldwin,” Surhoff says. “It’ll work. Now, a little suffix to bring it to an end, Max? Junior, the Third, the Fourth. Shouldn’t get too fancy here.”
    Hitchcock is shaking his head no. “Leave it alone,” he says almost under his breath.
    “I agree,” I say. “Nothing on the end.”
    “Great. So we have a name. Max R. Baldwin, right Max?”
    “I guess. Let me mull it over for an hour or so. I need to get used to it.”
    “Of course.”
    As unsettling as it is, selecting a new name to be used for the rest of my life will be one of my easier decisions. Quite soon I’ll be confronted with choices far more difficult—eyes, nose, lips, chin, home, job, family history, and what kind of fictional childhood did I have? Where did I go to college and what did I study? Why am I single and have I been married? Children?
    My mind is spinning.

CHAPTER 18
    A few miles east of Morgantown, we exit the interstate and find the lot of a Best Western, one of the older-style motels where you can park directly in front of your room. Men are waiting, agents of some variety, FBI, I presume, and as I slide out of the van, wonderfully unshackled, Hanski rushes up and says, “Room 38 here is